Right. Listen up, you unwashed masses, you digital loiterers, you filthy lot.
I’ve been told this ‘ere platform is for the sharing of art and profound thought. Well, I’ve got a bit of philosophy for you, haven't I? It’s a joke. It’s a bit of culture. It’s a bit of... well, it’s a bit vivid, so if you’ve got a sensitive disposition, kindly shuffle off and go look at a picture of a cat or a fucking sunset.
So, there’s this baker, right? Big man. Hands like hams. Much like myself, but with less... let's say, divine inspiration.
He’s got a wife, a real spitfire, and they’ve got a bit of a routine for when the "bread" needs putting in the "oven," if you follow my meaning. Because they’ve got six kids sleeping in the next room, they’ve got a code.
The baker says, "Right then, darling, I think it’s time to type a letter to the solicitor." And that’s the signal, yeah? They go at it like a pair of frantic badgers.
One Tuesday night, the baker’s feeling particularly... industrious. He leans over and whispers, "Oi, love. I’ve got a very urgent bit of business. I need to type a letter to the solicitor. Right now."
The wife, she’s exhausted. She’s been scrubbing floors and yelling at the miniatures all day. She says, "Not tonight, Isaac. The typewriter’s jammed. The ribbon’s dry. Go to sleep."
The baker grumbles, he turns over, he’s pouting like a slapped toddler.
Ten minutes later, the wife feels a bit guilty. She nudges him in the ribs and says, "Alright, then. I’ve had a look at the machinery. The typewriter’s fixed. You can send that letter to the solicitor now if you like."
And the baker... he just stares at the ceiling and says: "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. It was a short letter. I wrote it out by hand."
Anyway. If you laughed, congratulations, you’re a terrible person and I respect that. If you didn’t, read it again slower.
